


Those Forgotten

by HerCrookedTeeth



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: A work painfully long in the making - borne from desire to write more than I ever could..., Complete and utter failure AU, F/M, Lots of gore. Sex. The potential for vague consent and physical/mental abuse of fluffy pyromancers., Seriously. Know what you're getting into before you start reading., Yet a small remnant of hope. Something that warms. Like light; like fire., pretentious. just like me.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-19 04:59:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16527845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerCrookedTeeth/pseuds/HerCrookedTeeth
Summary: Not every story has an ending.Once the pieces are shuffled from the stage, their importance fades with them - like a dying flame.In the broken lands of Lordran, is it possible for the last, discarded, remnants of humanity to make a difference?The curtain is pulled back, revealing the ugly and the beautiful.And perhaps not all they do shall be so forgotten...





	1. [present] prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [someone whom I hope still held out hope for these embers](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=someone+whom+I+hope+still+held+out+hope+for+these+embers).



The Chaos Witch Quelaag lay dead.

Her legs had given out from under her, and the blade that had once crackled to life with a forge’s yearning fire had fallen with her, useless and cold against the ground.  
Broken eggsacs and footprints, sullied through puddles of ichor, indicated that a traveler had breached the domain of the last known Daughter of Chaos; and if there any doubt had lingered, the sound dispelled it.

A crisp sound – clear and hopeful.  
Buried beneath the soil and sewage of the hell that had become known as Blighttown, a bell rang.

The laughter of the bell was defiant; here lay a slain witch, a remnant of prideful and foolish magic, cast aside and rent asunder.

So too were those who depended on her; whether directly or indirectly, the cautious gaze of Quelaag no longer protected the ruined landscape of Lost Izalith from those curious or foolhardy enough to traverse it from the land above.

In time, perhaps, they too would fall.

Maybe it was a hero who’d slain Quelaag; a Chosen Undead, who would rekindle what was lost and create a new Age of Fire.  
Perhaps it was a wretch, sworn to humanity above all else – or nothing at all.  
In the end, to those few who still live among the ruins of Blighttown, it mattered little at all.

Outside of the land of the spider-witch, brackish water normally a sickly brown had mixed with various other colours, darkening it further.  
The corpses of barbarians, lost to the curse and the poisons of Blighttown, drifted through the waters with a peace they had not held in life.

Sitting against the shore, she listened to them drifting, and imagined that they’d died fearing her.

_Felt good.  
(Wasn’t true.)_

Spitting into the coalesced pools, the butcher of Blighttown rose, prising her great knife into the sand, uncaring as her shoulders sunk the blade into grains that all-too-easily fled into the swamp.

_Whole swamp’d drift away soon. Probably_

The one stories had called Maneater was broad, and wide, and strong.  
And the various poisons and acrid fumes of the place had worn away at her skin until it was tough as leather, tough as the hides her family had use to dry out after they’d finished cutting up the carcasses – a lifetime ago, lifetimes ago…

Dry fingers reached up under the comfortable familiarity of burlap; they found her neck, and the still-healing scar where one of the barbarians’d gotten a little close.  
Not that it wasn’t something a draught of estus couldn’t fix;  
Not that it mattered.

_Scratch, scratch._

It hadn’t robbed her of her eyes, though; they’d always been sightless and grey. Maybe it had been a blessing; kept her on her feet, helped to her listen. So that she could hear all the little betrayals and secret spies that warned her of trespassers – carcasses –

**_Meat._ **

Her tongue flicked out and over her lips. They tasted dry, felt cracked.  
… Unthinkingly, Mildred plucked a smooth stone from the ground and tossed it forward; the singular hiss as the currents devoured it doing nothing to calm her mind.

Only two things had kept her in this place.

She was not strong enough to destroy the chaos-blighted witch. But she had fought an intruder who had seemed stronger, more canny – more driven.  
Almost as if by a word, the word people’d had when times had been good…

_Purpose._

Her tongue tasted burlap, and sweat. That was the word.  
And they’d fought to a standstill that had turned into a rout; and upon shaking herself from death once again, she’d fought her way past the barbarians and plague-bugs and the envenomed waters that were her home, clawed her name onto the ground, and waited.

… She had not been summoned.  
Quelaag had been slain. In the present that might have been, and the now.

And that’d been the first thing.

_The other –_

Water welled up around her legs as she waded into the muck. It sunk into open wounds and sores that were all but inured to the pain, gurgling as she carved her way through it.  
Her wooden ‘shield’ had been shattered, and bits of the plank unbound themselves – floating freely with the rest of the detritus.

She only had her knife now, held behind her back like a manacle or a burden, the comforting weight of steel reminding her that it would exist for as long as she still drew breath.

…

The other had been death of her sisters; a final death. No more life for them, but they were all but Hollow, anyway.

_Was probably a mercy. Nothing left to mourn._

And it was a good lie, and she liked it so much that she decided to fall back against the swampy tides, and listen to the water flowing, back and forth.

Perhaps they’d been something to cling to, in the hopes of things returning to normal – one day, very distantly.

But even as alone and abandoned as they’d been in Blighttown, she’d known that to be a fanciful myth early on; and as their numbers dwindled, it’d only become more apparent that there was nothing.  
No hope, no chance of succor.

_And yet._

Sinking under the waves, she could still hear it; strands of unkempt and stringy brown hair swaying amidst the pull of the marsh.

A bell – clear as any bell that had ever been cast when the great city of Anor Londo had still held open its gates – or so legend said.

_Was that…  
Not hope enough…_

There was no reason to stay here anymore, at least; nothing bound her to the swamps, and without the lure of the bell bringing the proud to an early grave, there’d be nothing to eat soon, save swamp-adapted watercress and the sludge of whatever decomposed waste drifted throughout the waters.

Not long ago, they’d captured a few swamp-folk. Maybe some of the last.  
Maybe pilgrims.  
_Didn’t matter._

They’d smelled of that false fire, the same kind that had corrupted the old soul of Quelaag, and all of the Witch of Izalith’s brood; but they’d made for a fine feast, save the one who’d escaped.

Mildred still wasn’t sure how he’d done it; the way he’d stammered, and cried out when his fellow travelers were consumed wasn’t unusual, but most folk gave up.

_Knew it was just the way the world worked. Wasn’t just. Wasn’t right.  
But so it was._

… Yet, he’d made it out, somehow.  
Had to have been possessed of sterner stuff, or capable of hiding his mettle beneath that facade, or possessed of some vile fire occultism;  
The same kind that had killed so many long before the curse had snuffed the rest of 'em.

_Somehow he’d made it out, and maybe she’d do the same._

Breathing in deeply, water filtered through her lungs; carrying with it the sweetest scent of sludge and rot. If it were truly to be the last time, she wanted to remember it even as she hated it.  
Maybe it’d come for her soon, too.

_An end._

The bonfire in the old sewer complex had been a cellula, once. One of 'em had. For a firekeeper, or so they’d said – but that was long before it had all collapsed, and that much even Mildred wasn’t sure of.  
Regardless – the fire remained bright, and offered some measure of peace.

Even to her.

You didn’t have to see the flame to perceive it; it lit up every corner of your soul, spreading around the heady mixture of ash and warmth that filled you with hope, and ambition, and surety; and all the virtues of the old world, so long past – so lost.

Occasionally, she’d hear the devilish whickering of phantoms, from moments before or yet to be; they must be able to see her, she knew, but they did not interact beyond ghostly afterimages.  
… And she was fine with that.

Truly.

But eventually, it came to you; that moment when you knew you had to leave.  
Hunger, or hopelessness, or desire; they all came, and with them the sense that it was time to move on.  
Maybe she’d been staving them off by staying down here; maybe keeping an eye on her sisters, so lost and so Hollow, had been her way of staving it off.

Now they lay dead, and were no more.

Cricking her neck from side to side, Mildred followed the path up as easily as it’d been when she’d been young.

A great waterwheel had been built to cart then-fresh water from the high burg, above, down to the fields of the farmers and peasants below.  
When the curse and invading barbarians had come in deadly tandem, the panicked refugees had built a maze of walls and hastily-constructed ladders that went nowhere.

Designed to lend themselves to some kind of escape that was never to be.

She’d always sensed some kind of presence around it; not hostile, but patient. Quiet.  
Probably unseen, even to those looking for it.  
Whatever it was, or whomever it was, they’d avoided her – she’d avoided them.

_Didn’t want to die, just yet._

And the thought was still infused with fire, and kept her warm and armoured where else her determination might already have began to falter.

Platform after platform slowly passed by; and she could hear them falling into the muck below, increasingly distant.

She was uncertain whether she’d miss the sound.

The next few hours were heady with combat; bloatflies, which merrily drained dry what human corpses they could find, were everywhere.  
And they swarmed with a singular, lopwinged intention, eager to drink and find rich soil for their nests.

As pests, they were a nuisance at best.  
But the sound of their splitting down the middle, and that torrent of red falling to the earth, that was a sound she’d miss.

Occasionally, one of the perverse ruins of something that might have been an insect, or a barbarian, or one of the malformed swampling fire-wretches would stumble forward, bellowing heat and hatred; but they were easily avoided, or clubbed to death with the blade’s iron haft, and left for dead.

Eventually, the air began to grow less and less heavy – the humidity and murk of the swamp drifting off of her skin, and mixing with a plethora of different scents, all unfamiliar.

Just barely, she could hear the whistle of wind and the coolness of a fresh breeze.

… Mildred sat down against a wooden structure that a family might’ve used. It’d been carpeted; once rich and woolen, and now ratted away at the edges by the acidic smog of Blighttown.  
But it was still comfortable, enough for her. Enough to try to grapple with the thoughts that, even now, threatened to overwhelm her.

Air smelled sweet – fresh air, that was.

Maybe it was something she’d taken for granted once, but she couldn’t remember it smelling sweet like that before.  
It was nothing like the soporific hazes of the swamp, tangy with the sugars of the dead – though in Lordran, those scents were never far away.

But it had many softer smells, scents that played across memories she’d thought lost –

_Not lost. Didn’t want to think about.  
Not gone Hollow._

Flowers.  
There were flowers, and ravine breezes, and the distant softness of something that might’ve been rain.  
She couldn’t recall. Couldn’t remember.

Biting back air, Mildred rose to her feet again, her great knife falling all too easily back into her hands.

The barbarians in the cavern had probably been some part of a vanguard; distant enough not to fall to the toxins of the swamp, the last few defenders the settlement had mustered, their Curse, or the zealous magics of the spider-witch.

And they’d kept memories too; she remembered well the warcry as they’d fallen against Blighttown when it wasn’t called by that name, and under the mesh of burlap her smile went wide – and the blade sang.

She always cleaned after her work was done; it’d been second-nature, some remnant of earlier time and her occupation, something stronger than memory.  
The oozing, dusken, and tinny-scented blood coating it now wasn’t something she wanted spicing her next meal, after all.

_Hollow flesh was awful to taste in the first place.  
And it was good to know what you consumed for what it was._

Bare feet squelched against something red and fallen, stretched all against the floor where a great corpse had collapsed, and it took all of her energy not to run forward; but if this, if there were truly an exit here…

Had it been in reach this entire time?

 _Don’t think about it._  
Wouldn’t have gone.  
Even if it was.  
  
Wouldn’t have gone.

Steps fell one after the other, quickening – but no more then a brisk walk, for even now the air was a treacherous friend, and though she could hear no sounds creeping up at her, nor feel the ground about to give way underneath her feet…

The rush of air overwhelmed her.

Silently, listening to the breeze – the butcher of Blighttown removed her burlap sack, and held it tightly to her chest.

Air caressed rough and worn flesh, air that didn’t burn you every time you breathed it in. The scents now were too many – too strong.  
But she could feel the breeze blowing, soft and true; and it tousled her short hair back, against the wind –

Comforting cloth fell back into place quickly, shielding her reaction from any who might see – or the none who would, and she knew not which she feared more.

Then, determination returned to her, and she began navigating the ravine; slowly and cautiously.  
It was not familiar territory, and here the entire cliffside itself might as well be an enemy.  
Quiet, fearsome, and just as likely to let her fall into the welcoming winds –

_Sound of metal. Sharp. Like a grate, a door, maybe._

Sucking in air through her clenched teeth, Mildred cautiously eased through an iron door left carelessly open.

Perhaps whomever she’d fought before had used it to navigate into the depths; or perhaps it had been this way since anyone could recall; and before that, nothing mattered, since myth bled into memory, then.

… And beyond it, the thrill of fresh air died, entombed within a bitter casket.

The long staircase she’d navigated led to something a city, she remembered.

 _Name wasn’t important._  
You should remember it. Obvious.  
But it wasn’t important.

Whether it had been a city once before or not, the air was heavy as the swamps she’d left, thick with salt and brine.  
It clung to the skin and stuck under the eyes, and Mildred found herself scratching under them just to satiate the damned itch.

But she remembered that the town, the place of it, a city that’d…  
_The name of the Gods, themselves…_

It held a passageway or an exit, and it was just a matter of finding it.

All around her, she could hear the braying of the long-wracked Hollow.  
Too weakened to do much more than bleat, too lost to do anything but.  
Neither a threat nor food, they seemed to have congregated around the place.

Some had fallen to her feet, and she felt their bony, waxen skins crunch up against her as she strode forward.

But it wasn’t an obstacle.  
They weren’t an obstacle, so it didn’t matter.

Eventually, the weight of their cries grew more silent and muted, and the once-rich stone beneath her feet gave way to moss and lichen.

And somehow, Mildred knew she was close – though to what, or why it mattered, she couldn’t say.

Only that her fingers fumbled sightlessly, grappling with the unfamiliar, until they found something cold and iron, something that snapped back with a satisfying ease.

Beneath her, the floor rose up on ancient systems that were lucky to still work; but being the crafts of an older time, it was not luck that had preserved them, but skill; and she wished dearly to mutter a prayer of thanks, but had forgotten the words.

_Speaking them would’ve been hard.  
Had she remembered them, even._

The elevator ground to a halt, and stone fell from the ceiling above; tumbling down around her and the shaft below to the ruins she’d only just left.

Mildred shivered uncontrollably, wide legs set in a wider stance.  
If there were danger ahead, it’d be well to be cautious.

… But the strangest of feelings had overcome her.

Walking slowly, one foot in front of the other, with a hesitance that she had not felt in the countless lifetimes she’d spent gnawing the bones of those lost to Blighttown, she walked forward –

Marveling at the unfamiliar feeling of live grass.

The wind here wasn’t strong, and though she could not see the ruins of the place, the great grand stone having long since faded and crumbled around what had once been a shrine, perhaps an important one – the feeling of solemnity wasn’t something you had to see to understand.

Her fumbling forward grew hesitant, and finally stopped.

Dry fingers and cracked nails scratched at her throat.  
Words tried to foist themselves forward, and got lost in the maze of what she wanted to see, and how she remembered saying it.

_Besides. Nobody here.  
All gone._

The loneliness, at least, was familiar. Oddly comforting, too.  
Nobody around meant nothing to eat, but meant _nobody_ to eat.  
And that was time to think, to be alone – to not really wonder at all of it.

Just to feel.

So she stretched back against the wild grass and did just that.

Perhaps it was only an illusion, but it was possible to imagine that Blighttown didn’t exist here.  
Hadn’t existed, had been nothing more than a memory, good or bad, now gone with so many others.

_Maybe it’d been why none came to help._

And the thought struck her as exceptionally funny, and where she hadn’t been able to find words, she could at least find that; a husky, full-throated laugh, that drifted against the wind and made her wonder if that was her, how she truly sounded, now –

But the grass had ruins of stone beneath it, and curiousity was as compelling a reason to follow their trail as any.  
Solid rock made little sound as she traced it to a well that made even less –

Even when she pushed something familiarly rent of meat, and buzzing with tiny flies, into the well's open abyss.

Of course, it wasn’t the well that she could feel close by – and felt drawn towards.

Soon, her feet had brought her to something that sent drifts of smoke and peals of heat into the open air; and the fire was stronger here, passed by as it was by everyone who went this way.  
Silently, Mildred drew close to the fire – unfamiliar, even as it was an old friend.

There were no tricks, here; no wrathful plagues sent by the same pyromancers who, rumour had whispered, sold the cities of humans to the Curse itself, or perhaps even started it.  
It was fire, only fire – warm, and comforting, and soft as the gentlest blanket.

Exhaustion overcame her, and the great iron blade slipped from blood-slicked hands, clattering to the ground beside her.  
Hours vanished as she looked into the fire through sightless eyes, staring through a woven bag of burlap –

And the fire neither cared, nor judged.

Resignation threatened to overwhelm tiredness, and her soul whispered that it might not be so bad, to rest, and not to care –

When she heard it.

_Heard a sound, rustling._

_Life._

_Somebody else out there, was alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've got any questions, feel free to ask me in the comments. I'll do my best to explain everything via the story itself, but just think of this as a 'side story' to Dark Souls.  
> One where the protagonist's aren't the player, but - a well-regarded NPC and a dialogueless background character.  
> I'll try to have a chapter or two up every day; there'll be a fair few.


	2. [past] the pilgrims

Even now, there were fires burning brightly in the lower reaches of what'd been the old burg.  
He - didn't particularly know what'd started them.  
Ugly things, they were - hungry, and unwatched.  
  
Maybe meant to lure travelers in, so that bandits or worse might...  
Well, it wasn't worth thinking too much about.  
So far, after all, things had gone fairly well.  
  
He - hadn't particularly wanted to escort the other pyromancers down to the marsh.  
Compared to the Great Swamp, it was a terrible place. Things grew there, but it wasn't verdant; they bloomed, and strangled themselves in the desire to live.  
  
Laurentius of the Great Swamp - a demonym which was usually added as a pejorative, and made no sense in such a large group - kept glancing over his shoulders, but the gaggle of rag-clad pyromancers remained vigilant.  
Pyromancers tended, by their nature, to be solitary - favouring each other's company over the danger of trusting outsiders. But very few felt _comfortable_ moving in such a large band, and though they'd been lucky so far...  
  
"Easy now. There's, ah... We'll have to bypass the tunnels I used last time. We can - we can use the old drainage system, I think."  
  
One of the chief pyromancers nodded, all greying hair and stern angularities.  
Privately, he'd always found it a bit humourous that, in rejecting the structure and society of soul sorcery, so many of his kin felt drawn to an imitation of it's - well.  
He'd be glad when they'd gotten down in safety, to study the rumours that some ancient and wise swamp pyromancer had escaped down to the flooded farmlands, and called the place home.  
  
Maybe he'd - think about taking a look at it.  
The Bell of Awakening.  
... Of course, it was certain he wasn't the Chosen Undead, but - no Chosen Undead was coming, wasn't that right  
So maybe he'd look into the bell, with a bit of courage, find out for himself if there were any - legendary pyromancers about, and...  
And do something.  
  
Stale air overwhelmed them, and one of the younger pyromancers gagged, nauseously...  
And _loud.  
  
_ "Easy, easy, _easy!_ There are - several strong Hollows, around here. Of - of refugees, I think. We have to keep quiet."  
  
Thankfully, one thing the group _wasn't_ was incompetent, and the novice's nervous smile reassured him.  
Not that Laurentius could blame someone for feeling - grotesque, in a place like this.  
  
Walls closed in, all brick and grim; the sewage canals of a city built in pale imitation of the City of the Gods.  
And where once those same canals had carried water and silage to what might've been fertile fields, well, now there was only poison, marshland - the plague-infested barbarians.  
He'd heard that a few travelers blamed them, of course. Which made sense.  
To a lot of travelers new to Lordran and long-undead alike, pyromancy seemed...  
Well, it was easy to imagine it as the source of all kinds of ills.  
  
But there wasn't any truth to it.  
With the Gods' seemingly abandoning the place, and the predation of invading forces, whatever villages had called the once-fertile land home were done for, even if the place hadn't flooded.  
  
Laurentius paused, tasted the air.  
It... Felt a little tinny, like someone had fought a still-living opponent, recently, and drawn fresh blood.  
His stomach knotted up, and once more he paused.  
But this time, he remained silent, signaling with his hand alone -   
  
Realising, too late, that the new tunnels hadn't been intended as a trap, but might as well have been a death sentence, all the same.  
  
A murder of Hollows descended upon them from all directions, wailing death-rattles from throats that had grown too withered to produce sound.   
Some waved brands and torches, and others wielded knives or broken swords, and still others just leapt with fists and ragged nails and their own chipped teeth.  
  
The melee broke into a panic almost instantly; the older pyromancers attempting to lead some sort of unified defence which collapsed due to the cramped corridors. Gouts of fire cascaded past ruined tables and ablated against cold stone; his widened eyes could make out the young novice from before, fleeing and screaming from where a wild swing of a Hollow's torch had set their garments ablaze.  
  
It was now or never, and in the heat of the moment, he could feel his own fire welling up inside of him.  
  
 _Do something.  
Do anything – but do something!..  
  
_It pleaded, and he listened.  
The axe handle was a bit worn, but the blade was plenty sharp, and a better match for the closed pillars. With a few quick swings, he'd managed to knock the worst of the bastards back, and win some wiggle room for a group that had been rapidly descending into panic.  
  
But it didn't matter, and could not have mattered less.  
For even as he managed to salvage the situation, something ran out of the darkness.   
A massive Hollow, skin so old that it'd gone a corpsen blue, had charged _through_ one of the pillars, knocking several of it's smaller kin to the side.  
  
Without thinking, he placed himself between it and the rest of the pilgrims. The old familiar heat haze of air combusting cut an orange swathe through the dark in front of him –   
  
And the _second_ grotesque Hollow brought a lumpy fist against the back of his skull, the fire faded, and he collided with cold stone; knowing no more.  
  
By the time he'd woken, the ringing in his ears had faded to a manageable thrum, which was something. Oh, there was still the headwound to deal with, but – it'd been wrapped up a bit.  
  
That was the first thing he'd noticed, actually; the linen seemed like it'd been waterlogged, and the scent was so strong he'd almost laughed – it smelled like vinegar brine, like pickling liquid.  
And given that someone'd stuffed him – stuffed all of them! – in barrels, it seemed only right to laugh.

But that faded quickly, because – because they'd all been stuffed in barrels. One of the older pyromancers had already _been_ 'preserved' – but whether through the actions of their captors or flailing in a panic, and drowning in brine, that was uknown.  
  
Laurentius felt his teeth grit with anger, but the sight was a lesson; the barrels were clearly designed to hold _people,_ and shaking them from the inside wouldn't help.  
All right, so – so how to escape, then...  
  
The rest of the group was all talking at once, only not _talking._   
Howls, and prayers to the Gods, and ruminations against the Gods, and screaming – if he'd focused on it, the din alone would've been so bloodcurdling that it would've been impossible to think.  
  
And he wanted to reassure them, but the most important thing to do was to find a way out. And if he could do that, he could – free them, one by one, and they'd...  
  
 _A sound._  
  
Metal, scraping against stone.  
Slowly, and frequent. Maybe unnecessarily frequent, like the sound served a secondary purpose.  
A warning, or something else?  
  
 _But even as the groans and shudders of his peers grew more feverish, Laurentius remained silent; lost in thought. Perhaps he'd – overpower their captors.  
Hollows mostly went by routine, so, perhaps this group had been... Coopers, of some kind, brewmasters...  
  
_ _ **A sound.**_  
  
It shook him from his thoughts, from all reverie of escape.  
The new arrival loomed over them, though not as tall as the brutes that'd put them down, before. She was clad about as ragged as any Hollows he'd seen, but her flesh...  
  
Her muscles rippled, hadn't atrophied. Her skin was flush with the illusion of life. And if it weren't for the burlap she wore over her face... _Burlap..._  
  
A horrible, nauseating feeling welled up inside of him.  
Where she loped, she struck each barrel with the blunted side of the great blade she carried; and one of his peers went silent, ceased making noise.  
  
Soon, the entire room was silent – all fourteen barrels beside his own.  
  
…  
  
“Hey! Hey, you aren't Hollow! Listen to me, _hey!_ _”_  
  
It was a desperate attempt, because she walked freely amongst the Hollows, and they made no attempt to attack her. She was clearly as much their captor as any other undead, and yet....  
  
She paused, halfway to the exit; and he thought he saw the faint hint of brown hair under the sack she wore.   
Very quietly, she turned in place, and though he could make out nothing of her lips, he was sure he could hear something very quiet.  
  
 _Counting._  
  
Agonisingly slowly, she made her way to where he was, which meant a full look at her; hist stomach turned once again. She smelled of swamp water, and burnt meat, and other burnt things; and her skin was rough with scars and muscle and, and, _and_ _–_

“... Hey.”  
  
The husky tone of her voice sounded as surprised to speak as he felt to hear her.   
It – hadn't entirely matched the image he'd started to build of her, in his head, because...  
Because you never expected Hollows to speak.  
  
And she wasn't.  
Wasn't Hollow.  
  
“Hey. You didn't make sound. Why.”  
  
Laurentius wasn't sure; he'd planned to throw a fit and fight as hard as he could, but it had become obvious that wouldn't change anything... So he'd waited, and tried to find an opening.  
Then, he'd realised there wasn't an opening, so that meant talking to it – to her.  
  
“I... I, I... I'm not looking for trouble, none of us are. But we're not here to fight. Just – let the rest of them leave, and, ah...”  
  
What was a good offer? Maybe his – pyromancy could be of some service, get him out of trouble, for once. The fire laughed ruefully within him, but it was a possibility, perhaps –  
  
“ **Heretic.”** _ **  
  
**_She _spat_ the words. He could hear the saliva between her lips, the _hatred._   
Yet, it seemed directed more at a concept then at him in particular – and he was still alive, still undead, and that meant there was still a chance that some of them...  
  
“Yes, well... Listen. You can clearly understand me. And if you – hate me for my heresy, well. Maybe you can... See to letting the rest of us go, and...”  
  
It took everything he had not to swallow back air and his own saliva in equal amounts, but she just paused again, as if she had to weigh every word he'd said. And, well, maybe she did.  
  
How many fools tried to make their way down to Blighttown, anyway...  
  
But that's when he noticed something else.  
She never stared at him; the fabric of her sack was sewn up. There was nothing to see out of.  
An idea struck him, and he – bobbed his head to the side.  
  
 _Instantly,_ she tensed up, drawing closer.  
He could smell her breath; rotten, or perhaps _sweet.  
  
_ “I can see you.”  
  
Whether it was meant as a lie, or a threat, it didn't matter. Had she seen him, and if she hadn't, how could he use that to get out of here, to get them all out of –   
  
She hesitated, but struck hard, and he blacked out again.  
The dreams that found him were far more peaceful than the nightmares he drifted in and out of.  
  
  


A day passed, perhaps.  
  
One of the barrels, empty. Couldn't remember who'd been in it before.  
When she returned, he decided to be louder than before, shaking just enough to get her attention.  
But she ignored him utterly, took one of the others way.  
  
He swore, and cursed, and pleaded, but she ignored him entirely.  
  
The next day, nobody was brought out – but he could _smell_ the roasted scent in the air.  
  
  
  
Several days had passed, perhaps.  
  
And several barrels were empty; the smell of filth and vinegar making a distinctly unpleasant aroma that overpowered the senses.  
Laurentius wanted to give up, but he felt exhausted; since all he could do, all any of them could do, was sleep...   
And wait.  
  
Maybe he would've given in and given up if she hadn't returned, then.  
  
Behind her, she was dragging _something._   
It had been skinned and roasted, and he wanted to believe it was too odd a shape to be a person, because – the thought that they'd been eating people, people he'd known...  
  
With great skill, she cut a haunch from it, and subdivided it into pieces.  
He watched – feeling captivated, unwillingly enthralled.  
  
The way she moved was almost elegant, as if she'd done it a thousand times before; and perhaps she had. When she finished, she took several bits of meat to his wooden 'cell' first.  
  
“You're getting weak.”  
  
It felt as if she was scolding a child, or being self-incrimating. Her words were hoarse, and once again he felt certain that she hadn't spoken to others before.   
Hope welled up inside of him, and his mind worked overtime to find some way he could use this as leverage, find a way to escape –   
  
“Listen. If you don't eat, you'll die.”  
  
His teeth ground against one another, even as his stomach rebelled.   
There was no way he'd eat anything she served him, and –   
  
Gingerly, but with a surprising gentleness, she _winched_ his jaw open. Laurentius writhed within the confines of the wooden cell, but it only seemed to close tighter around him.  
And the worst part...  
  
It tasted good. Whatever it was, it tasted amazing.  
Anything tastes amazing when you're starving, but it truly did taste so wonderful that he wanted to cry. And perhaps he was crying –   
  
_her fingers were coarse as they wiped away his tears, like an afterthought.  
they lingered against his eyes, hesitating as if they wanted to hold them open  
press down against the lids  
or  
  
_“Shh... Shhhhhh...”  
  
The cooing tone of her voice was calming and reassuring, and he wanted desperately to believe in it, even as the reality of the situation was impossible to ignore; the walls of this makeshift slaughtering grounds more confining than the barrels they were trapped in.  
  
Yet she slowly – hesitantly – placed a brusque hand against his neck, moving it up and down in an unfamiliar gesture that no human might recognise as any kind of intimacy.  
  
“It's all right. Nobody you knew. Not people. S'all right...”  
  
The slight slur in her tone made him question every word.  
Because he wanted so very much to believe that it was the truth, and what he'd just been fed was – was some sewer rat, or even some kind of grotesque jelly, taken from the gelatinous slimes that sometimes roamed the congested tunnels.  
  
“You... Promise that?”  
  
He asked, hesitantly, unsure why he was asking her.  
  
The weight of her hand froze, as if terrified by his response.  
He could feel it tighten around his neck, as if she wanted to snap it as easily as she'd butchered _whatever it was he'd just eaten_ _–_  
  
But she didn't.  
  
“... I do promise.”  
  
They stayed like that.   
He didn't know how long.   
She just knelt down near the barrel, not saying a word.   
  
The mixture of scents, of burlap and seared meat, and sweat, and all too many unfamiliar things...   
It was overpowering.  
  
When she finally left, feeding the other prisoners, she was silent once more.  
  
He no longer knew what to feel.  
But perhaps she might listen now, he might find a way, to...  
  
  
  
A month might have passed, perhaps.  
  
Most of the barrels were empty now.   
He'd sworn, and cried, and raged all he could; there was nothing left to do.   
When the butchers had reached one of the older pyromancers, he'd just – walked with them, calmly, as if accepting his fate...  
  
Before breaking into a run.  
  
The unhollowed one seemed to 'watch' – if she was really capable of sight.  
And the pyromancer made it a good distance from their prison before one of the same titanic Hollows from before leapt down, pinning him to the ground.  
  
At first, he struggled mightily; and then he didn't move. And then he was so many pieces, carried with slow and methodical purpose to some processing grounds that Laurentius couldn't see.  
  
No.  
  
There would be no escape.  
As for the numbers of them, they were dwindling.  
He'd – he'd failed, there had to be something he could've done, and he...  
  
“... Isn't your fault.”  
  
She whispered.  
  
When she spoke to the others, it was in that some tone, never loud enough for him to hear.   
And he didn't want to imagine, but he was _certain_ that she was consoling them, telling them that things would be fine, even as they prepared themselves, for...  
  
But she had come to speak with him again.  
  
He wasn't sure how he felt, how to feel about it.  
  
Yet...  
He was still alive, so, perhaps...  
  
“Please. Let us go.”  
  
“No.”  
  
And he had the horrible thought that maybe, if he asked just for her to let _him_ go, maybe...  
She might possibly say _yes._  
  
… But he refused.  
  
Time passed in an uneven flow, as it always did.  
She finally sighed, a long and listless sigh.  
  
As she hunched over his barrel, he could hear her counting again. One, two... Three...  
  
Just three left.  
  
“Listen. I'm – not exactly a great meal, but there's enough of me to last awhile. You can let the other three go. You _know you can._ Please...”  
  
She snorted; and he should've known that begging wouldn't be the right choice to make –   
  
“You're wasting time. Caring about them. **Meat.** ”  
  
Her words hung in the air before she left, and she loped away before he could answer, or even think to answer.   
None of his colleagues spoke anymore; he felt certain another one had succumbed to despair, and gone Hollow.  
  
… but he did care.  
There had to be – something had to...  
  
  
  
Some time beyond a month had come, and passed.  
Probably.  
  
It seemed as if he was the only prisoner left. He'd forgotten what the rest of them looked like, their voices; but he hadn't forgotten them, or their grisly fates.   
He was – even the sight of her made him break into shivers. He couldn't help it.  
  
But he'd resolved to – try to fight, when she came for him.  
There was nothing else to it.  
  
So it was with surprise when he heard strange and unfamiliar sounds coming from the distant corridors.  
Metal sounds; the sounds of steel striking steel, and then flesh.  
The distinctive merry roar of fire; a fire that resonated with the tiny flame he carried within him.  
  
He heard, rather than saw, the _**crash**_ of the large Hollow as it fell, not jumped, to the ground.  
And when the knightess, all but fully concealed by the battered plate she wore, made her way into the larder, it was all he could do not to shout right at her.  
  
Even as it seemed an impossibility, he'd made it – somehow, he'd made it.  
  
It turned out the knightess was a wandering adventurer; one who'd heard the story of the Chosen Undead. She didn't seem to believe it, but... Making her way to Blighttown seemed as much a goal as any.  
  
She'd asked, twice, if he'd be all right; and he had assured her that he would, with more braggadocio than he felt. _(because if he didn't lie, he wouldn't be able to move at all)  
  
_ But when she asked if he wanted to come with _her_ _–_ he had to back out, before he could accept.  
It was possible that – his captor had already been slain. Or that she was – waiting there, in the dark.   
He didn't want to imagine either, or face her again.  
  
… For some, horrible reason, he didn't want to imagine she was _dead_ either, and the feelings of disgust and confusion at that thought...  
  
She said something; asked if he was a ll right, again.  
  
But it was perfunctory, because nobody who bore the curse was well; and it was all to be done to maintain some fragment of hope. Yet...  
  
He felt as if he was clutching his fire to his heart anew, all the way he traced his steps back.   
The lower burg was almost entirely quiet; save for a few long-hollowed thieves, quickly dispatched by flames, it was as if the last few...  
  
It was as if it had all been a waking dream.  
  
When he made it back to Firelink Shrine, Laurentius found a place to rest, one he'd grown particularly fond of.   
The shade made it good for meditation, and though that wasn't necessary to...   
To pyromancy, or to his own beliefs, he liked to rest, occasionally.   
  
Centre himself.  
  
And after the ordeal, it was the first thing he needed – after a wash and a moment to savour being _free_ and _alive,_ of course.  
  
But when he tried to focus at first...  
It all came rushing back to him, in a memory tinged with bile.  
He dry-wretched, and felt like sobbing without being able to trace the source for his tears.  
  
 _Let it be, and let it pass._  
  
The fire within him whispered, bright and soothing.  
His beard had grown out, a bit, from beyond where it'd been little more than stubble _she had run her fingers over it wordlessly, again and again, as if it were unthinkable_ and swayed in the light breeze.  
  
 _Let it all be, and let your mind clear.  
You are safe now; you are safe here._  
  
His first breath took in air, and the wild scent of the shrine.  
The second was slow, calm. That, and she, was in the past. He could wait here, maybe help another, brave enough to...  
  
 **The bell rang.**


	3. [present/past] cages

Slow breathing.  
In, then out.  
Once and again.

Very rarely, an animal would slip from the branches above Blighttown, scrabble to climb back up, twist and fall further below. Exceptionally rarely, the water would break it's fall, and you could still eat it.

Rarest of all, sometimes -  
  
Sometimes, they lived for a little while.  
And the sound of their breath _sounded just like that._

The place was a gutter, where all the cast-off dregs fell. Even the undead shouldn't welcome such a place, but she'd never been one for speaking.  
So she warned them off in her own ways.

Occasionally, one'd slipped by her sister; and they decorated the swamp well enough, preserved by brackish waters.  
  
And sometimes, she'd let one escape – just hadn't had an appetite for killing, or so she told herself.  
Because it was nice to think that she could still let people go. A little something to hold onto.  
  
In that slow, sallow breathing, though, she could hear it. His desperation, a nervous stammer.  
Laughter, but not because anything was funny at all. Some kind of desperate attempt to find bravado, to tell her off.  
  
Maybe he even wanted to fight.  
  
**“... You.”**

Her legs dug into the dirt like trunks; felt good.  
The earth here wasn't like the putrid soil of the marsh; plants still could live in it, thrive even.  
She could hear him before he got up, and the sound made her sick.  
  
Did – had she failed?  
  
In the moment she'd chosen to follow the strange, thorn-armoured knight, to try to figure out what he was doing... Had the _swamp witch_ killed her sisters?  
  
And did that mean – she should hate him, or feel grateful, for doing what she...  
  
“You stay away. There's – no reason we need to fight, ahaha... I will, I will...”  
  
She didn't say anything, but lunged forward.  
His hood flew back as his head struck the tree hard enough to splinter brown wood; and as the two of them were alone, there was nobody to come and save him, not this time.  
  
Distant birds called out phantasmal warnings, and she howled back at them – and they flew away, croaking hoarsely.

His fingers snapped through the air, and she could smell smoke; she slammed his head against the tree again, and again for good measure. Last time, it hadn't taken so much; he'd put up less of a fight.  
Maybe he'd found something?

“Ah... Hah... If you're going to kill me, then.. D, do it already. I'm not going to - “

Blood was trickling down his forehead slowly; dark red, like any beast's would've been. She could smell it mixing with resin and her own sweat, and lifted the back of her hand to taste it; and hated herself a little bit more.

… He wasn't backing down.  
  
She let him fall to the base of the tree, and catch his breath.  
Even if he'd been the one to finally put her sisters into a final death....  
  
“... No reason to. To kill you.”  
  
Funny.  
He twisted a little more when she spoke.  
Was her voice that disgusting? Made sense.  
In his position, she probably would've _too._

She clamped her hand down against his back, _hard._  
Felt good to push him into the dirt, too.  
You heard stories about – no. You didn't; nobody did.  
There wasn't anybody left to tell stories and plays anymore, the kind that she'd been taken to and _listened to,_ rather than seen.  
  
But in the traveling religious shows, they'd said pyromancers occasionally set fire to green fields, just for the pleasure of knowing they burnt.  
  
She wondered, idly, if pyromancers burned, too.

“At least don't, if anybody else comes back this way – You don't need to do this. You, you can let them go.”  
  
“Of course I can.”  
  
Maybe he expected her to laugh from behind a mask of woven sack-cloth. To revel in years of slaughter that might've impressed the Great Gods' high executioner.  
Nothing to be proud of, though; not for a human, and that's still what she was.  
  
“... Won't.”  
  
His breathing slowed, became regular. She – eased up the pressure on his back, felt jealous of the clothes she'd dismissed as swampdweller rags.  
They were surprisingly well woven, not so different from what she remembered of traveler's cloaks, from when – wanders passed through town...  
  
She let go of his back, waited for him to run.  
  
… Why wasn't he running?

“You – you won't then? That's – that's great news, ah... Of course, I... I'm biased, since I don't really like the thought of anyone else, ahaha...”  
  
Maybe he didn't think he could get away, which was probably right.  
He'd gotten a bit more weight on him since he'd escaped, a bit more muscle, but she was still a monster.  
She could catch up to him, if she wanted. He'd probably make it to the well she'd passed, and then...  
  
But he wasn't running, and she wondered if it was because he was scared.  
  
“... You trust me.”  
  
Each word took an incredible amount of effort to say, and she was exhausted from talking this much. A monster, speaking, was an ugly thing. Made her feel like a human, and if she pretended she was a human, then she'd be one step closer to giving in.  
  
But she did want to speak, for as long as he'd hold in his disgust. For as long as it'd be before he ran, again. And by then, who knew; maybe she'd have picked up an appetite –  
  
“N... **No.** ”

His stammer wasn't born of uncertainty, but – he was afraid. Maybe even terrified. She could _feel_ him looking right at her, even if she couldn't see the dark green of his eyes.  
Slowly – and his fingers were trembling – he managed to raise his hood back over his face, over the matted light-brown mess of his hair, thick with sweat.  
  
“No. I would never – never trust somebody who's done what you've done. I just – I have my convictions. And if I can convince you to, to not...”  
  
Ah.  
_So that was it, then._  
  
“... Right.”  
  
Overhead, the sky had gone silent; long dead were the sound of bells, and she missed them already, for everyone knew the legend – or at least, she had repeated it to herself, for every second of every minute of every day she'd lay amongst the filth and brine.  
  
“You... Aren't going to take issue with that, then? With me?”  
  
She'd been thinking about it.  
For a lot of reasons; because he was the first person who'd spoken to her for more than a few minutes, in a conversation that hadn't just been her reciting stilted sentences to phantoms, glimpsed in the fire.

Out of curiousity, too.  
  
Part of her wanted to make him pay for not conceding this _one, small thing_ to her.  
But, it was her fault, too. Even if he was one of the swamp-dwelling wretches...  
She'd become one, too, fire or no.  
  
… He knew that.  
Must know it.  
  
All at once, the instincts that had kept her alive sprung to life, and she realised just what was happening. He'd been talking again, not because she was a person, but because he'd been looking for a venue of escape, like cornered rats always did.  
  
She'd fallen for it, too.  
  
They both sprung into motion at the same instant; his pine-green garments fluttering around him as he rose up, shoving dirt into her face; dirt that became smoke.  
  
Of course, he wasn't trying to blind her.  
He was trying to _see_ what she did; and so Mildred howled in a hoarse facsimile of anger, and swung from foot to foot, as if she were at a loss – even as she heard his feet falling, one after the other.  
  
Left, right, left –

Her open palm crashed into his back, sending the pyromancer falling to the ground, but he'd been ready for it. Scrabbling to his feet, he started running again, and in the open light of day, it was _she_ who was at a disadvantage.

Still.  
  
_**a HUNT was a HUNT**_

Howling again, Mildred chased after him, with only the weight of her knife reassuring her up a long and spiraling grassy stairwell.  
She could hear the mumbling of long-hollowed soldiers, and unlike the Hollows that'd once called the Sunken Village home, no primitive memories of her swirled amongst their diseased minds.  
  
Everything became a free-for-all.  
  
Freeing his axe, he swung it into the side of a Hollow, which crumpled and fell down the rolling hillside towards her.  
She cut it, and threw it off the cliff without a second thought.  
  
And fire exploded around her, fire and heat; but compared to the boiling and acrid toxins that permeated Blighttown, it was nothing.  
  
She took another step forward, right through it.  
  
He'd kicked another Hollow off the ledge, and was sweating terribly; she could practically _smell_ it rolling off of his cheeks, sticking to his stubbly beard...  
  
But she didn't expect him to draw a small knife, one that'd barely have passed for a hunting knife in her youth, and stick her right between the ribs.  
  
The two of them stood, for some time, in an incredibly horrific paused tension.  
  
He continued to stare, and she wondered if pyromancers prayed; if he was praying to some foul Chaos gods, or the corrupted form of the Witch of Izalith, lost to Chaos.  
Slowly, she pulled the knife out; there was a little _pop_ as it sunk free of her flesh, and clattered against the ground.  
  
Laughing nervously, he took a step back.  
She matched it.  
  
Felt the wound; it was pretty shallow, light-red and not burning. There was no poison or rust against the blade; maybe he had the habit of cleaning his weapons, too. Disciplined of him.  
She wiped her own blood against her leg, thoughtlessly.  
  
He took another step back, and sent rocks tumbling to the yawning abyss below; she could hear their rolling clatter, before the fall.  
  
“Please, just – “  
  
**“No.”**

She'd made a mistake. Always did.  
Trying to hold out hope had been a mistake; and she wasn't sure what she'd been hoping for, anyway.  
Not that she blamed him, or anyone, really. Nobody to blame but herself.  
  
But a monster was a monster; and if she were a monster, then maybe it was time to spread her legend a little farther than Blighttown –

_**her teeth sunk into his arm, thrown up like a shield** _

_**she'd only rolled the burlap back a bit, but the discoloured enamel ripped flesh well** _

and he screamed, and she wondered if it was because this was familiar  
if he would run, again  
or resign himself

_**to her** _

She tore back, and it'd been a weak bite. Fighting Hollows, nothing'd be more useless, but it was surprising how even a hardened blade panicked when they realised to her, _they were nothing more than a piece of meat._

Chewing what little flesh she'd bit, and spitting red into the palm of her hand, she raised it high – so that he could see it.  
  
He was quivering, now. She could hear it.  
Sounded nice.  
  
Was he remembering anything?  
  
**Good.**  
  
“... If you're reborn, don't lie.”  
  
She whispered tenderly, a little sad that it had ended like this.  
  
“Or, fight. No...”  
  
Her hoarse words made her hate herself even more. It would've been nice if he'd – been a wandering knight, and killed her under that tree.  
It would've been poetic. Maybe, if the Chosen Undead restored the Age of Fire, people would tell legends with her as a footnote, to scare pious children –

Like she'd been.  
  
But he hadn't, and she'd kill him, like the others.  
If she regretted it, there was no point; no point to any of it, and –  
  
Rocks clattered underfoot, again.  
  
She paused, and something didn't feel right. Once again, the two of them stared at each other – for she had a good idea of where he was, backed up against the cliff face...  
  
But if he was to the wall – then she...

Her footing gave out from under her, and Mildred fell, rolling down the cliffside.  
She almost felt exhilarated, like laughing; if she was going to die because she'd tumbled down a wide cliff, then the Gods still laughed, at least.

She drove her blade into the rock, and it _hummed_ in protest, then held – then _snapped_ , and the sound of metal breaking was so horrible she couldn't laugh anymore.  
  
It was her last lifeline, after all; and with it, she might've given up, if rocks hadn't met the back of her head and the small of her back and every part of her with a sickening crunch.

…

_They'd captured many of the swamp wretches. Compared to the years-old wild boar that she'd smoked and occasionally fed to her sisters, the new rations would last a long, long time._

_And killing those responsible for the curse probably made the Gods happy._  
_She liked to believe as much; it was harder, now._

_Of her sisters, Alfrida was still working the little table that Mildred had set up for her._  
_She wandered aimlessly if she was left to her own devices, or she sensed intruders, so it was good to give her something to chop at, constantly._  
  
_When there was nothing to guard, Desiderata would stand watch near the same barred doors that had prevented their escape into the lower burg; the ones that had resisted so many waves of undead fleeing the flooded ruins of a village, whose name had been lost to time._

_As for the rest of the mass of Hollows that she might have remembered names of, once, they were fine if she didn't tend to them, and all of them ignored her._

_Occasionally, she watched the prisoners._  
  
_Even without seeing them, she could get a feel for each and every one; usually, there were one or two in a catch that fought, tried to escape._  
_Less so closer to the surface, when she left Blighttown to bring supplies here, for her sisters._  
_For their sake._  
  
_But those brave enough to walk through the plague-infested marshes, they were strong._  
  
_She respected them, even as they died. To her blade, or to the disease, or to the twisted monstrosities born of failed pyromancy. It mattered not. They came, and challenged the wastes, and died._  
  
_Maybe this group was different because they'd fled so many other places, or had a goal she'd taken from them. But as different as they were from the norm, he was different from them._

_He always spoke, when she drew near. About anything, really._  
_It was transparent. Looking for a way out, a way to live._

_… She'd been like that once, maybe._  
_Listening – felt good. She hated it._  
_But..._

_The first day when it was just the two of them, she'd seen him weeping again._  
_Without fresh water, with only the awful sludge from the longdead aqueducts, there was no way he was properly hydrated._  
  
_So she held his lips open; slowly let the water flow back._  
_He was grateful, probably. She told herself that if he had wanted to live so badly, he must be grateful._

_A few days later, she'd found him motionless._  
_His head was tilted back, as if he was just staring at the ceiling, the mold growing down along the stone inlay._

_With great tenderness, she lowered his hood and stroked down the matted and unwashed mess of his hair. Ah.  
It was like hers, now.  
That was too much, so she brought some more bracken water, leftovers from one of the barrels, and washed the mess out of his hair. _

_He didn't say anything, but he was grateful, probably._

**_“ I'll be going.”_**  
  
_She had managed to say, but it hadn't registered at all.  
That was probably because he wasn't truly here, anymore.  
Sometimes, people seemed to retreat into their own minds after a few months in the larder.  
  
…  
  
“ **Don't be scared.”**_

_Of course, she wasn't talking to him._

_Maybe she didn't remember the words anymore, but once, their... Mother... Maybe..._  
_A person... Some person in her life...  
There'd been a song... _

_She tried to sing; failed. Her voice was hoarse, anyway. Ugly. Brutish._  
_Gravely and scratched and accented with oily water and the faint sweet scent of what he'd be, in time._

_And she combed back his hair, again._

_“ **Not listening. Are you.”**_

_Whispering into his ear, she hesitated._

_Of course, he couldn't listen.  
He probably couldn't do anything, right now.  
Maybe he was close to Hollowing, maybe not. She couldn't tell.  
Didn't care.  
  
(But she did.) _

_As slowly and cautiously as she good, she pulled him out of the barrel; pickling fluid fell from his damp clothes, and drained against the floor, mixed with so many other stains. He still said nothing, and was motionless._

_It was remarkably easy to strip his clothes and wring the water out of them.  
She folded them neatly against the stone floor, and felt where he was laying beside them, motionless._  
_His skin was cold and clammy, but he still drew breath; there was still warmth in him, just like fire._  
  
_She envied both._

_“ **Just...”**_

_But she couldn't think of 'just' what she wanted him to do, or say, or be.  
It was all of those things; there were a million people she'd have liked him to be.  
It would've even been fine if he sprung to his feet and killed her there, more naked than she. _

_There were fairytales about that sort of thing.  
She thought; half-remembered. Might have been._  
  
_He wasn't any of them, though; he was just himself._

_And the shuffling sounds as she stripped what little clothing she wore and discarded them far more carelessly were far more muted.  
Her fingers hesitated against the sack she wore, eyeless and staring. She didn't remove it. _

_In her head, she liked to imagine that maybe Desidarata would look in, and some memory of her sister would filter through, and she'd hear her sister laughing again, embarrassed and chastising her for such – for something, for..._  
  
_A soft and rhythmic slapping sound echoed around the larder._  
_Wine that flowed as vinegar mixed with other scents around them, falling pas his trembling legs and under her quivering thighs._  
_But he was barely moving at all, barely breathing._  
  
_**“Pretend.”**_

 _She whispered, pleadingly, but he was gone, and not even the desperate meekness could find him._  
_It would be her taking what she wanted, as she pleased, as it always was._  
  
_His skin tasted fresh and clean as she bit it, left rings around his arm for him to wear.  
He shivered a bit, breathed in a bit, but was still utterly silent. Occasionally, sound gurgled up from within his throat unwillingly, half-laughter, half-mumbled._  
  
_All of the sound he made, she ignored._

 _Because it was real; real interaction with another human, feigning life even if they were both undead.  
Maybe she was stealing his fire, and that was greedy, and worse even than being a fire witch, but she was fine with that, she was –_  
  
_Licking her dry lips, where they'd long gone cracked from the sulphuric air of Blighttown, she shook her shoulders, let the burlap dry her eyes. Yeah._  
_This was fine, and if –_

_“ **Don't, pl... Please – “**_

_he'd spoken_

_With a shaking hand so much wider than his own, she placed her fingers against his face.  
She could feel his breathing, more regular now. He was shaking, terribly, from underneath her.  
Not even bothering to hid his tears._  
  
_… She was a monster._  
  
_Forcefully, she closed his eyes, even as he writhed against the floor._  
  
_But he was weak from so long in the barrel, and he'd been weaker than her, even before.  
She held him down and slowly raise herself off of him, unaware and unconcerned with how it might have looked; for no more would her sisters trade whispers of scandal and little laughs._  
  
_And they wouldn't have laughed about this.  
They would've..._

_**CRUNCH** _

_she twisted his leg to the right, and ran her fingers softly past his hip_  
_placing two fingers to an open wound where she'd bit his arm_  
_and painting his forehead dark red_

_He stopped moving, but couldn't quite return to the emptiness he'd held before._  
_It was – it was for the best, she told herself. If he had to focus on the here and now, he wouldn't Hollow._  
  
_She didn't want anyone else to go Hollow. Not even swampmen, and heretics._  
  
_Nobody._  
_If nobody had to suffer ever again, but she –_

_The next few minutes, she washed him down again.  
Dressed him surgically, as he tried to struggle, but did little more than wriggle – and inhale, and try not to make sound or take in any part of her at all. _

_Wondering if he looked more pleasant now, if he might have been welcomed to some part of society, some fancy ball where nobles might not be able to recognise him, she wiped the blood from his forehead, and smeared it against her lips._  
  
**_“There. It won't be long, now.”_**  
  
_She whispered._  
_Sorry. Truly sorry._  
_But he hadn't been strong enough to kill her._  
_Nobody was, and the world was cursed._

_…_

_“ **... Run.”**_

_But he didn't run, and couldn't run. Maybe he didn't want to, anymore._  
_So she repeated it again, a forceful whisper; another demure plea, one that would've sounded better coming from a blushing maiden, rather than a grotesque mountain of a woman, like her._

_She repeated it again, and again._  
_He could go. She couldn't see him; maybe if he fled now, she'd trip over Desiderata, too.  
That way, he could probably escape. _

_(Repeated it again, to no reply except the stones – and they laughed. How they laughed...)_  
  
_Once more, he was staring ahead – but his eyes, for a moment, she could almost feel the weight of them against her. Willingly or no, he had stared at her._  
  
_It was all she could do, so she embraced him._  
_His body was very light, and maybe it would've been a mercy to just snap his neck; maybe it would've been a final death for him, and that would've been better than what was to come._  
_But he'd surely Hollow under the knife, and know no more, and that was a mercy, too..._

_And her duty was first and foremost to her family, even hopeless as they were. She had never made exceptions before, save in the hope of spreading her legend; of attracting new meat. This wouldn't be for that reason. And..._

_She unwound her fingers from his back. He was weeping, now. She could feel the tears against her chest; they felt soft, and precious, and if she remembered how to cry, she might have too._

_He didn't resist as she packed him in the farthest barrel in the farthest corner of the room. He knew as well as she did that when the hour came, he'd be harvested just like the rest. She didn't want it to be so, but it would; for that was the death of the Age of Fire._

_When she left, she did not look back._


	4. [present] bluff

Gods, but he'd fled as fast as his legs could carry him.   
If it was luck that'd carried him this far, he was grateful for it; but whatever it'd been, it'd taken _her_ away, and that was enough.

His arm still stung, and his head was still bleeding, but estus and time'd fix both up, so long as he wasn't careless.   
This place had been safe, though, a safe haven for travelers that'd found nowhere else to go.   
And now – it wasn't.  
  
… Maybe it hadn't been in the first place, though.   
What with the Firekeeper disappearing, and the others wandering off, or through – maybe it was just that he had _wanted_ there to be somewhere in the world that was safe, that sheltered the lost and frightened.  
  
Which'd be him, then.  
  
One of the old aqueducts had been quite, hah, hollowed out; it'd been turned into a sewer and water line for the burg, and then flooded into the land below, far as he could tell.   
You could see the ruins of them from below – from Blighttown.

Maybe that's how she'd known to find him.   
Maybe she could see, or had just – instinctively known...

“Oh, dearie! You came back!”  
  
It slid onto his face as easily as it always did.   
Pyromancers were, if he had to hazard a guess, instinctively loners.   
There were many reasons, of course, but – but fire was itself lonely, enthusiastic and too quick to burn others, when left uncontained.

But he was – had learned how to be quick enough, in terms of putting his own emotions second, so he smiled at the merchant, her withered fingers hidden behind the iron grating.  
  
“Right, well – fate seems to have, uh, led to our paths crossing once more. Any interesting news, then?”  
  
She _cooed_ and plucked a maggot from her hair, flicking it against the sewer-water.   
Despite the grotesque action, the old merchant was, herself, somewhat sweet – and he did have a bit of an affection for her.   
Since it was rare to, to find people who weren't – hostile, these days...  
  
“Oh, always, love. People coming in and out of the ducts, you know! All sorts of wretched undead, not like you or I!.. But, most of them must've been quite mad, running around with no 'pleases' or 'thank yous', disturbing my quiet and not even buying anything... Buy anything, won't you, love?”

He made a great show of browsing her 'wares' – which consisted of a wide variety of dried mosses, some of which he knew to be...  
A bit useful, for toxins and things...  
And some much more obviously useful envenomed weapons.  
  
The latter held no interest for him, but he spent the better part of ten minutes 'haggling' with the merchant over the price of some of the moss-clumps, blood-red and brilliant.

When he finally purchased them, he liked to think she looked a _little_ more human, a little more composed.   
Hard to tell, really – but he liked to believe.

“Oh, you are too good to me, love... I do hope you'll be around again, soon!”  
  
“It's – it's always a possibility. I'm trying to, ah, find a new place to call home, though.”  
  
“'Ave you considered a sewer grate? Always room enough for two, love, always room...”  
  
“Couldn't be more flattered, I – but, but I'm trying to find something important to me. A – a fragment of something. There were... Rumours, around here, of a truly legendary pyromancy, so...”  
  
Even most of those who bore the accursed Darksign were still hostile to pyromancy.   
He didn't hold it against them; it was just how things were, and always would be.   
But, whether it was because her mind had grown ripe with swamp moss, or a natural quirk of her personality...  
  
The merchant clattered her teeth, and held a bony finger to her almost hairless skull.

“Pyromancy, pyromancy... You always hear things like that lurking around the Great Swamp, don't you? You ever been there, love?”  
  
He tittered a bit, at that.  
  
“Once or twice, though it – might as well have been a dream, for how it went.”  
  
“Coooooooo, how exciting... I never travel, these days. Well, if you can't find it in the Great Swamp, maybe there's some in that old sunken village, under the burg? I'd put lost pyromancy there, if it were me. But it weren't me, nobody ever asks _me_ to hide their secrets, more's the pity...”

There was no reason to avoid it.   
If **she** was still alive, still undead, she'd probably be far away from that place by now.   
And – that was good, truly.   
  
Maybe – maybe the open air would finally Hollow her, or even – bring her some peace...

_but, of course_   
_when he thought about it_

“Dearie, you're trembling! I think you ought to have some of this moss. Good for aches and pains, have some, it's on me...”

He didn't want to eat moss, at the moment; to eat anything.  
Thinking of _**CONSUMING**_ something, of teeth grinding down against skin – he shivered, and felt dry nausea overwhelm him, just barely managed a sickly smile.

“No... No thank you. Besides, you might see another traveler and they... Might want some of that moss, you know, for – for healing purposes...”

“Oh, you're always such a kind one, always thinking of others! But you know, that's what I like about you. Most people don't think about others, you know. Never even stop to chat with me, just – run on by, thinkin' they're the bloody Chosen Undead...”

Some would've laughed at that, but he kept thinking about as he retraced his steps.  
Towards the shrine, away; and away, and towards the shrine...

Firelink shrine was much how he left it. Nobody was present; all were gone.   
If the knightess still lived, he prayed – truly, to any gods that might listen – that she was well. If she were victorious, maybe...   
The curse'd finally leave them all alone, and things...

Of course, **she** wasn't by the fire; the fire was dead.   
It – made his heart feel bitter, to see something so tragic.   
Despite what folk believed, Chaos was as much a part of fire as Light, and Death.   
  
That was – how pyromancers saw it, at least.

He let his fingers glide over the unburning bonfire, wishing for the thousandth time that he had a strong soul, like the Witch of Izalith or – any of the great Lords, really.   
Strong enough to be a Firekeeper, or to change something, to...  
  
Nothing happened.  
The fire within him whispered and crackled, but could not spur it back into life.

Silently, he traced his way down the cliffside, one step after another.   
There was no path, and no reason for most to go down the steep cliffs, so it was almost as if he was taking a road untraveled; no almost about it, actually.

But with every step, he could just make it out; something soft, and shallow, and almost without sound.

The sound of someone breathing.

Minutes turned into hours and the day had grown long, the sky above orange and hazy.   
It was normally the part of the day he liked best, and would've been a nice time to – rest, a little, under a tall tree.

Find himself.  
  
And yet, here he was looking amongst jagged rocks for the fallen form of – of her.   
There was no point to it, and he was probably just making trouble for himself, but – perhaps that was it, like the...   
Like the merchant had said.  
  
Perhaps, even if...  
Even if it were **her,** the idea of simply leaving her to die, again, slowly bleeding out amidst the ground here – it felt antithetical to him.   
She could chase him again, if she must, but – there was no way that even something so monstrously strong as she was could manage that, after a fall like this...

Rocks whispered and shook under his cautious steps.

He could make her out, now, and winced at the sight. In some ways, she was lucky – her lack of any real armour had meant that it hadn't been ground up and shredded her like...   
Like some of the overconfident warriors he'd seen taking a nasty tumble.

But blunt rocks shouldn't pierce through skin like that, and even after all the fighting and the endless deaths, he had to glance away.

“E, easy now. Just – breath in, keep breathing in. I'm not going to... To fight you, so...”  
  
She gurgled, and given that her throat was punctured, it was a miracle she was still 'alive.'   
But with the sack she wore half-off, twisted around her pointlessly (since he could see _clearly_ that there were no eyeslits from which to see), he could read her lips.  
  
…  
  
“Not going to kill you. Not – not now. If it comes to that, and you're... Going to keep trying to fight me, yeah. I'm sure I will next time. Just... Try to help me when I pull you up, yeah?”

Her lips half-parted; the gesture was strange, and weak, and it felt weird to see the monster that had tormented his life and – and waking dreams looking _weak._

“All right, good. Uh, on the count of three...”  
  
It turned out that she was heavier than she looked, which – it shouldn't have surprised him, but it did.   
Still, he wasn't so terribly weak himself. He could do this.  
  
The first time he grappled for her flesh while trying to keep his footing, she didn't budge; pinned within the rocks like some ghastly magical accident, a profane soul sorcery gone wrong.  
  
When he tried again, it seemed like she was trying to remain bound to the pillars of stone, and he wondered if she was cursing him for trying to help, and if she was that resistant to the idea that – he might not want her to live, exactly, but didn't want...   
Any more deaths on his hands, if he could avoid it...

And the third time, as his fingers sunk into her back and he pulled with all his might, she grit her teeth and pushed with him, and slowly – agonisingly slowly – they lifted her free from the rocky tomb.

She made no effort to retrieve the split halves of the knife she'd carried with her.   
Even one was practically a poor man's longsword, and he made a note to fetch the handle-hafted one, later.   
Maybe to give her a reason to, to hold on, yeah...  
  
But she leaned against him heavily as they walked, and there was no way that the two of them were making back up to the shrine by the time night fell.

Instead, he shut his eyes, trying to figure out just where they could rest for a minute – and when he opened them, they naturally settled on the far-west side of the cliff face.   
An indent was just visible...   
A cave.

Progress was slow, of course, but even wounded she was practically indomitable, and kept pace with him, perhaps out of some...  
Sense of obligation.

When they made it to the cavern, however, the welcoming dark outside replaced by the comforting dark of a nice and spacious den, the illusion faded and she collapsed to the ground in a bloody mess.

His fingers hesitated, hovering over her back, before he flung the topmost cloak off his back, and used it to wipe up some of the blood.   
And there was a lot of it; blood and bile and things he didn't know the name of, but they mopped up easily enough, and a few bandages later...

“There you go! P, practically a new woman, really. I'm not exactly a, ah, healer, but. I think you'll be all right, miss.”  
  
She said nothing, and he could hardly read her expression by pursed lips in the dim light, the sack she wore stubbornly clinging to a scalp that was no doubt drenched in sweat.

…  
  
Her fingers paused as she weakly reached up, and removed it, setting it by her side.   
He did his best to ignore her as he lit a fire – not a Fire, not a Bonfire, but a mere fire, a reflection of something greater than either of them.

But he couldn't help himself, and risked a glance to his right, to where she lay against the floor.

It was obvious she – cut her own hair, that much was certain.   
It was clumpy and matted and dark brown.   
And her eyes, staring vacantly at the ceiling, were grey and sightless.  
  
“... Why.”  
  
He didn't really have an answer to that, and her voice was so soft and hoarse and full of _self-loathing_ he...   
Didn't really know where to start.   
So he stared at the fire, at his own hands; calloused and poorly wrapped with bandages, a momento of any pyromancer's art.

“Aha, it's – a bit of a story, really.”  
  
It might not have been, but it was a good a place as any, so –  
  
“Will you... Tell me.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Of course. I'm not exactly a storyteller, so, it might not be very entertaining, ahaha...”  
  
“I don't...”  
  
She gulped back air, and managed to wipe some of the sweat from her brow.   
Her eyebrows were thick, and it didn't really surprise him that she was a bit, well, provincial.   
If she'd been undead for a long time, maybe her own story...

“I like... Those.”

'Those' must means stories, so – he was in the clear.  
Laurentius pulled a hand-mirror from his side, where several of the trinkets and baubles all skilled travelers carried with them rattled merrily.

His beard was a bit thicker, and his eyes a bit sadder, but after all – it was still him.

“Right, well. Pyromancy is a bit of a lonely thing, and – I'm sure you must hate it, but for those who... Seek it out, there's a bit of a romance to it, really. Not just the – the feeling of it, but... Your bond with the first teacher you meet, even if it's not – romantic, it's a bit intimate.”

Stammering, again. How embarrassing.  
And he was simplifying it, too much – but how on earth could he do justice to the powerful pull you felt when you first felt the kiss of fire against your fingertips?  
  
What words were there that could describe the love he'd first felt for his distant teacher, who'd shared her flame with him, as strong as the feeling of remorse that'd struck him as they parted ways – as pyromancers, so lonely by nature, so often did?..  
  
“Intimate, I suppose, like fire. You – learn to really listen to people, to, ehm... To value them. Since every person is – is distinct. Irreplaceable. Even the ones you – you don't much care for, ahaha.”

The monster had gone as silent as the grave.  
… Wouldn't have surprised him if she felt the same way.   
In his experiences, most people did; they just put their values about how the world should be above their view of people, and that's where things got unpleasant.

He stared into the fire, and the embers warmed his spirit, more than his fingers.   
The cavern's stale air was colder than the night outside, but – pleasantly so, and he couldn't be miserable with a fire nearby. It was as impossible as breathing in water, or...   
Or something truly bizarre.

“So. I simply figure that if you were going to die, I didn't want to be the one who killed you. You can hate me for it, if you want. It wouldn't be the first time.”  
  
“Have you... Before. Have you killed?”  
  
“... Yeah. Of course. Who hasn't, these days...”  
  
The silence between the two of them felt – pleasant, and equally as awful to admit.   
His skin was screaming at him that this was wrong, and every part of his body should be looking for a retreat, some place to flee to, but...

“I guess I ask myself why I need to go out of my way to – to add more to that number. To the people I've – you know, helped move on.”  
  
“... Because it's better. Than being alive.”  
  
She'd leaned up, now. Balanced herself against a rock, like a pillow.   
For someone as solid as her, maybe stone wasn't even that uncomfortable.  
He'd lived in a swamp, of course, but not – not in it, so, compared to her...

Her fingers brushed strands of brown hair from across her face. Like this, without her eyes hidden under that sack – it was harder to think of her as a monster, as... As a killer.  
  
**still**  
with those same cracked lips  
teeth as white as the bone you saw as you cleaned her wounds  
had   
so greedily

The crackle of fire reminded him of split flesh, blackened against wood.  
  
He shut his eyes, and was grateful for silence –

_until he could feel her fingers against his shoulder._

“P... Please, don't...”  
  
The start of his feverish pleas escaped his lips unbidden.

But she did nothing; her hand didn't clench and throw him to the floor, or send him crashing into the fire.  
It just – stayed there, motionless and weak. She truly was – well, of course, having fallen so far...

“I'm sorry.”

She said, and then repeated it again – in a soft whisper.

Her eyes shut, and she sighed, angrily.  
  
“Can't talk, easily. Hard to remember the words.”

“Has it – truly been that long, for you...”

For once, some flicker of emotion danced across her face. The cracked skin of her lips split into something that might very well have been a wry grin.  
She didn't dignify the question with a response, but he – laughed politely, too.  
  
“Well, uh... Pyromancers aren't know for the – the quality of our conversation, so... I'll do my best to keep you company while you, ah, recover. Just – don't expect the world of me, yeah?”

“... Yeah.”  
  
He smiled a bit, in return.   
There we go, then – it was something, a start.

And – for whatever reason, he felt certain that she'd consigned herself to no...   
Further attempts on his life, at least for the moment. So – so –

“ **Hey.”**

Even still, the harsh and guttural huskiness of her voice made him pause.   
It made his skin crawl, felt like the discomfort he felt when wandering the backcountry roads, so late at night, with nobody around but the carrion birds.

“Your name.”

It was such a simple question, and yet he found himself so stunned by it that he almost wanted to laugh, again.   
_Of course_ she had no idea what his name was, and he'd – never even thought to assume that she had a name, besides...   
Monster, or demon, or butcher.

But, well – everybody in this place had held a name of their own once, hadn't they?..

“Laurentius. Formerly of the, ah, Great Swamp. You're welcome to use that as my full title, but it's a bit of a mouthful, so... Laurentius is fine.”

She laughed.  
Unlike everything else, it was a normal laugh.  
A bit quiet, a bit husky, but a laugh like any other normal human might make; even one who did not share their curse, who was not half-dead.

“But, then, ah... What about you?”

Gods, but it took her ages to answer.   
She kept opening her lips, and he _knew_ it wasn't a lack of words this time, but an unwillingness to speak.   
And she looked away from where the sound of his voice echoed, and occasionally sighed.

He'd almost given up on it when she spoke – near-silent, but forceful.  
  
“Mildred.”  
  
“I... I see. Mildred. Somehow, that's – it's not at all what I expected, really...”

Given that her eyes were still shut as she smiled, it was hard to tell what she was truly thinking; but he decided it was probably fine, so – all was well that ended well.  
  
**“Hey.”**

Once more, he froze.  
The fire crackled, but wheezed; he'd have to find more wood if he wanted it to be up all night and – he didn't...   
Entirely feel like sleeping, with her around It wasn't as if he was scared but –

**terrified  
he was _terrified_**

– but it wasn't right to, to let her wander off in a daze without a fire to warm her. He could keep an eye on her wounds, and maybe – try to balance and strengthen his own inner fire, since he'd be needing his pyromancy when they parted ways, so...

“Do you... Hate me?”

_Ah._

He didn't hesitate; it would've been wrong to.  
  
“Yeah.”

A pause, after he'd said it.  
  
“Of course I do. I can't – forget any of it. I'm still thinking of it, all of it, right now. And – and I'm trying to. And I – nobody could forgive, any of... Any of it, I don't think. I'm sorry.”

The apology was one of those little accessories so clearly delineated by context; he and she both knew it wasn't that he was sorry, but that – that he was sorry it had to be this way.

… Yet, she smiled at his answer.

“Probably for the best.”

There was something so painfully sad in her smile that he wanted to tell her he didn't truly hate her, or that he might learn to hate her less, but it would've been a lie in the moment, and they both knew it.   
More importantly –  
  
“I understand. Can I... Thank you.”  
  
“Y, yeah. Of course. I mean, I'd do the same for anyone, really.”  
  
He paused, at the implications of that – and smiled, in spite of everything else.  
  
“Guess I just have. So, uhmn... Even if I do – hate you, Mildred, just – consider that. Well, do you think you can rest up somewhat? Since, I'm afraid this fire isn't strong enough to provide any refreshments for – for undead, like us.”  
  
“Mmn.”  
  
Straightening up against her stone pillow, she opened one eye, staring past him.   
Feeling a bit self-conscious, he moved so that he was facing her better; she probably couldn't tell the difference, but it felt polite.  
  
“I don't hate you. Don't hate anyone.”  
  
“Really, now?”  
  
“... Not at all.”  
  
She whispered, with some tone he couldn't place, soft and bitter and awful.   
But there was also something else to it, and he decided that it was probably – the best of agreements they could come to.  
  
Checking her bandages was – unpleasant, and he hadn't been lying about his lack of skills as a healer.  
Fire could – enter into your blood, warm you up, remind you of the short-lived joys of being truly alive.  
It could cauterize wounds and ease burdens and restore your vigour.  
  
But it couldn't shift organs back to where they ought to be, or tell you if you even understood 'where they ought to be.'

The bandages he'd made from his green cloak had already become greenish-brown, but it wasn't as if he'd really cared for it too much.   
Kept the rain off, had a nice hood.   
There'd probably be – something else he could scavenge, when he hit the road again.

“Gonna try to sleep. Not used to it. Too quiet.”

She chewed at her lip thoughtfully, a gesture he found truly unpleasant, but more _alien_ than anything else.   
After a second, she realised that it must seem strange, and stopped – for which he was more than a little grateful.

“Less bugs. None of the rest of it.”

“Well, don't worry about camp. I'm not exactly a warrior, but I'm used to being – surprised by people. All in the life of a pyromancer, ahaha! So – you should be able to sleep well, when you finally drift off.”  
  
“... Please sleep, too.”

Then she yawned heartily, making no attempt to hide it.  
It was – a little funny, and he laughed a bit – then laughed more when her lips curled into a sour frown.  
  
“Don't laugh. S'rude. Didn't your parents teach you... Not to laugh at ladies...”

And he laughed again, and she turned against the rock, and feigned sleep; but, at least...  
He had stopped thinking about the rest of it, for the moment.

The night air was cool and calming, and he collected wood and memories in equal measure; the peace of it helping to distract him from any other unwelcome thoughts that tried to intrude unbidden into his psyche.

When he'd returned from his second little trip, the fire was well-fed and roaring merrily – and she'd drifted off to a sleep seemingly peaceful, and soft.  
  
He smiled in spite of himself, and yawned.  
  
Maybe it was – a bit foolish, but  
  
would it really hurt  
to let himself  
rest

for just  
a moment


	5. [present] firelight

She hated being awake.  
  
When you were asleep, you could pretend you were anyone else at all.   
You could be living a simple life, like you had in a distant memory.   
You could be a dainty noble lady, with fancy dresses and a thousand friends, and no knowledge at all that the best part of a person was the marrow you could suck out of their bones, work between your teeth like liquor.  
  
Being awake was being aware, and unable to escape the reality of being a monster.

It was fairly cold; she could feel the heat of the fire Laurentius had built dying down.   
A pity.   
He must have worked himself to the bone to make it last.  
  
She sniffed; the air smelled good.  
Down in the depths, there was the choice of using either waterlogged bog wood, and filling your lungs with a tarry scent of swamp worms and peat moss...  
  
Or setting fire to congested clumps of sewage, itself.   
Or using the still-bright embers of the Bonfire, itself, but she preferred to avoid that, if she could.  
  
After all, it made an excellent hunting ground – but it was not a place for a monster to live.

Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, reaching for a knife that wasn't there.  
Mmn.   
Unfortunate, that.  
  
It'd broken. At least two pieces.  
Bent metal and chipped from rust, she'd been damn lucky to keep it honed and sharp for so long.

He – Laurentius – had brought back the hafted end, and after her fingers roamed over the metal, searching for imperfections, she made use of it as a crutch, helping herself to pace around the small cavern.

Nobody from above must come here, often.  
  
There were lots of little caverns among the deep earth, and she'd often wondered if their might have been some escape route through the soil, itself. If they might have died a final death as people, if they'd just...

No points to regrets, of course.  
She'd survived.

…

Laurentius was lying asleep against the floor. He hadn't even bothered to find a rock, just – collapsed down against his traveler's clothes, shut his eyes, and gone to sleep.  
She spent some time listening to the sound of his breathing.

It was nice.  
  
Quiet as it was, it sounded like his dreams were peaceful, too.

Her fingers shook. It'd be easy enough.   
Stove his head in, with a large rock.   
Wait for him to recover, then once more.   
'Til the inside caved in, mangled and bruised so that you could reach in, if you wanted to, pull out what you pleased.  
  
Cut and clean what was left.   
Hang it up. A nice revenge, because he'd seen her like this.   
Knew she wasn't just some sorta mindless killer. He **knew.** And if someone else knew...

Then what did it say about her?  
  
She let her fingers dangle close to, but not over, his neck.  
  
“... No.”  
  
It was such a quiet whisper that he probably couldn't have heard it, even if he'd been awake; but she was used to talking to herself, and glad enough that the mood had left her, quickly as it came.  
He deserved to die for what he'd seen, because even holding out hope that somebody'd...  
  
She didn't **want** to hope.  
  
Hope stabbed you in the back, made you weak.  
To survive in this place, in Lordran, you had to strangle it until it stopped moving, let it die out like a smothered fire and –

_Oh._

At the thought, she wandered towards the dying fire. It was still warm, and she'd forgotten how much she truly loved a natural fire, one that smelled of woodsmoke.   
Once, Desiderata's husband had taken them all to the great forest that still survived in the flooded marshes.

It'd just been a forest, then. She thought.  
(Wasn't sure.)  
  
Mildred'd hoped that she could weasel out of it, even as she'd wanted to go.  
It would've been romantic, and taking your wife's crippled sister along with you...  
She'd never wanted to slow anyone down. Just'd wanted her sisters to be happy, like they were happy practising the family business.

  
It'd been nice, though.  
  
She remembered, fondly, the scent of the fire then, and an idea came to her.

Outside, she could feel the son – and nearly wept.  
It was all too much, entirely too much; she had to retreat to the cavern, until she could find that small piece of burlap, so surprisingly comfortable, and place it against her face.  
  
The scent of sackcloth was comforting, too, and she left the exhausted pyromancer to sleep, and dream of a better place.

Climbing was easy enough; even wounded, she could just crawl up the cliffside, use her teeth and bite into the rock if she had to.   
Maybe it'd unnerve people, if they saw it. Too bad there weren't any.  
None left.

_**SHUNK.** _

Her weakened blade murdered the tree, one slice after another.   
It'd have been easier if she'd just taken his axe, of course, and she made a mental note to do that, next time.  
  
The tree fell, and you could mince a tree's corpse as easily as a man's, if you knew what you were doing. Now, getting all the wood back down, some pinecones, too...

With every trip, the pathway got a little more familiar.  
  
She wasn't sure if she loved routine, or hated it, but it got familiar, and easier.   
Kept your mind from going to what you'd done, and would do. Instead, you could just pile up cords of wood, and feed a few to the hungry flames.

Of course, you couldn't eat wood.  
People weren't fires.

When she'd finished hauling enough down for a rest, she felt – pretty unsteady, if she were being honest.   
Doing this while recovering had been a mistake, let alone without a supply of estus. Some said that the undead didn't need to eat.   
Maybe it was even true.

Kept you from going Hollow though. Remembering what food was, what it tasted like.

So one more time, she sat up amidst the shrine ruins, above.  
They were incredibly calming, and she kind of understood why he'd been waiting there. It was nice to imagine that a traveler might stop, ask what she was doing.  
  
Or maybe what she was wearing. But if you saw someone wearing only rags, it was probably safe to assume they were a bandit, wasn't it...  
  
_Though she was worse than that._

A sound, unthinkable in the bubbling pits of the marshes. Almost a chittering.   
A bug? But it wasn't a bug, couldn't be one, not with something that loud –

Bare feet covered in callouses made their way silently through the grass around the shrine.   
She moved with a silence that might've matched a phantom.  
Mmn, and the thing wasn't a bug at all...  
  
Little, lithe body. Covered in fur, soft and brown and pliant.  
It trembled, but she had snuck up on it so quietly that it seemed transfixed – as they so often were.  
Long ears, that had failed to hear that she might not have claws or talons...

Yet she had **fangs,** and was a predator all the same.

Hoisting it over head, Mildred snapped the rabbit's neck and slung it over her shoulder.  
Several more followed, and she made her way silently back to the camp, where he was stirring – but not quite awake.

The sizzling of ripe flesh as it popped over a fire was comforting. Bubbling fat and drippings, cut furs...   
Making leather was more difficult, time consuming.   
Sure, it was something a butcher should know how to do, herself, but there weren't a lot of tannins down in the depths –

“You – ah, you're awake! I'd worried that, you know, you'd have wondered off. It's a dangerous world out there, for an undead. Even a terribly strong one.”

“Mmn. Not really.”

She laughed, because it seemed very funny to her.  
There weren't a lot of people who'd beaten her, and those that did, she respected.   
That was how the world worked; maybe the strong didn't always eat the weak, mind...

But it wasn't _dangerous._   
  
Danger implied there could be safety, and Lordran would never know such a thing, even in dreams.   
There was nothing in this world but death, and that...

His eyes lit up at the scent of roasting meat, and she felt a bit of pride in her work.   
Sure, she couldn't see his expression, but she could practically _feel_ the way he straightened his back, placed his hands against his knees, and grinned a sheepish grin.

“I've been living off a diet of moss for far too long. You don't get to be picky about what you eat, on the road. That smells – heavenly, if you don't mind me saying. Just lovely”  
  
“You can have... Much as you like. Already ate.”  
  
Four little rabbit skins had been thrown into the corner. She'd counted three more for him.   
He could probably stand to eat more, too, but there was a limit to her generosity; this was just paying him back for not leaving, before.  
  
“Right, well, don't mind if I do. You should've waited for me to wake up, though, you might not believe it but... Pyromancy is fairly useful for cooking, as well. It's not the most romantic use, mind! But it gets the job done.”

He sounded a little more excited to talk about it than she'd imagined, and just as excited as he wrapped some of his handwraps up around his fingers, and reached for a shank.   
Wordlessly, she placed one of the skins at the ground near his feet, and he made a little 'ah' that slid out of his lips in surprise, like he'd never eaten meat right off the skin it'd come in.  
  
Something she cherished. But she was glad he wasn't too familiar with it.  
Maybe a little envious, as well.

“You. Can't stay in one place often...”

“Nope, not at all. Delicious, by the way!”

“... Thank you.”

“But – “

He paused, waving the shank around in the air to punctuate his point.   
She could hear it whistling through the stale cavern air, and his obvious happiness at being able to _talk_ to someone about _something_ after – hmn.   
She understood that, _too._

“ – That's fairly standard for pyromancers, really. You... Might not believe it, of course, but there's a demand for our services, even if we're not really welcome anywhere. So you learn how to arrive in the dead of night, and leave in the dawn. A bit inconvenient, ahaha!”

“... Sounds like it.”

She paused, and wished she'd shaved a shank to gesture around with.  
Maybe duel his.  
That'd be fun.

“What were you looking for?”

And though she could hear his energy deflate, a little bit, it was obvious that Laurentius was as good as anyone else as keeping the negative thoughts all locked up and hidden away.   
You let them in your head too quickly, and that was Hollowing, probably.

She just tried not to remember, and all was fine.

“It's a bit personal. Chances are we would've – split up, anyway. You... A lot of people tend to seek out fellow pyromancers because of the intense loneliness you find when you realise you can – you understand fire, and nobody else does.”  
  
Part of her wanted to interrupt and accuse him of so many things; but there would be time for that, if he – _when_ they parted ways.   
And she was curious, truly.

“But I was... There were stories of a truly legendary pyromancy, perhaps even a skilled master of our art, who was dwelling amongst the pits of, er, your home. Nobody you ate?”  
  
His light grin only widened as she laughed, heartily.  
  
“... Nah. Woulda remembered.”  
  
It wasn't a lie, either.  
People came and went, but hating the swamp witches for their heresy'd been something she clung to.  
It was part of who she was, or had been... Probably...

The memories blurred together in her mind, fuzzy and indistinct.   
She grappled with them, and could tell he was waiting for her to speak. Damnit...  
Why was it so hard to say more then a few words...  
  
“Might have been. Long time ago.”  
  
Both of them stared into the fire, her slightly beyond it.  
Outside, the midday sun was rising, and shadows of light danced merrily along the cavern walls.   
She couldn't see it, but felt the dappled patterns against her skin. It was alien and unfamiliar, and she'd missed it, terribly.  
  
“We blamed him. For... Everything. Might not have ever existed.”

Ayn, or Ein...  
Eingyi, maybe. Something like that.

“Long before your time. Probably dead, by now.”

“Hah... What a pity. S'pose it's for the best, though. Pyromancers don't have a very long life expectancy, and if he really was responsible for anything too awful, I can't be miserable that he's gone. Just – wish I'd had a chance to know if he existed.”  
  
“... I could be wrong, though.”

She'd heard the defeat in his tone, that dangerous sound that you heard as people realised the _pursuit_ that kept them going was – pointless.   
She'd heard it escaping from some of the undead foolish enough to enter Blighttown, like a sigh.

Then, they trudged around the swamps aimlessly.  
Easy prey.

“Could've escaped. Might not be Hollow. After all. **I'm not.** ”

“You really do think?..”  
  
His smile returned, a little brittle.  
Polishing off the last of the rabbits she'd set aside for him, Laurentius lay against the ground and sighed.

It was a mixture of contentment and resignation.  
She lay back, too; and they stared at the ceiling together.  
Perhaps he saw a pattern of rocks and light and roots, mingling together.

And she wondered, she truly did.  
  
“Well, I'll keep looking then. Maybe elsewhere, though. Not to disrespect your – your home, but whatever happened there, I'm afraid I'm not really cut out for that sort of adventuring! Ahahaha...”  
  
“Nope. You're too soft. The kind that... Gets into trouble, easily.”  
  
She'd known a shy boy from the village, years upon years ago. In another life.  
He'd had no interest in anything besides butterflies and moths, and no knowledge at all that she'd followed behind him, stealthily, and always at a distance.  
  
… With no ill intent, of course. She'd had a crush on him, and nothing more.  
Though even then, she'd been tall and broad and unwelcoming, so it'd been just as foolish, then.

He hadn't gotten into trouble often, though. The village boys had never picked at his tunic, or smashed the glass jars his father, a glassblower by trade, had carefully made for him. Life had been easy, and gentler.  
  
Nobody was ever at risk, at all.

She found herself shaking, wasn't sure why.  
Maybe he noticed, but said nothing; it was a courtesy, and she appreciated it.

“You'd be surprised. I'm – fairly competent, and just because you... Got the hand on me that one time, well, doesn't mean much. Maybe I'll keep searching, then. _Maybe_ I'll even risk my luck in Sen's Fortress!”

The false bravado in his tone pulled her away from her memories.   
Didn't matter _how_ skilled he was, that was suicide.   
Nobody'd risked the fortress the Gods had built to keep the undead from their blessed city, save fools and the truly mad.

“... You'll die.”

She picked at her teeth, wished she'd kept a small bone to pull some of the flesh out.   
He was staring at her, probably disgusted. Good.   
Better to crush the idea now, then for him to – die in such a foolish way, without any hope at all.

“Everyone dies. If we're alive, we might as well try to do something, yeah? To – be a bit better than we are. If I could find this... Master pyromancer, maybe I could... I dunno. Do _something_. Be the person that...”  
  
He trailed off, and Mildred had no clue _what_ he'd meant to say, but knew exactly what he meant.

An alluring, beautiful fantasy.

The idea that you might bring an end to the encroaching darkness, and return things to how they ought to be.   
And very few had memories of – what it was truly like, of course, but every child knew that this wasn't _right._

Whenever he'd succumbed to the curse, didn't matter.  
She couldn't hate someone trying to pursue their own path, like that. Never could.  


“... I'll go. Too.”

“You – what?”

“ **I'll go.”**

The words were a command and a promise to herself as much as anything else.  
He recoiled a bit from her certainty, and she wondered if it was because he'd heard that tone before...  
  
She hated herself, too, and that was why she had to go.

“Maybe I want to **kill** this. Legendary pyromancer. Wear him. Like a lady's fancy coat.”  
  
“I, _Mildred_ – “  
  
“Not done. But. Even if I do. Make more sense to go together.”

Talking was exhausting, and she knew she wasn't inspiring, she'd never been a proper speaker or a proper lady, despite how much she'd _wanted_ to be, but she – tried to remember, how it was supposed to go...  
  
“Listen to me, please. I don't begrudge you your help, Mildred, but – if I were to lose what I've been holding onto, how could you even...”  
  
She held up her hand, and was aware of how much larger it was than his.   
She didn't hate that, entirely, and it made him quiet – which was nice.   
She imagined the look on his face, the fear, was nice, too.   
She wished she could hate that part of herself, but...   
  
She...

“Wouldn't kill him. If I tried, you can kill me.”  
  
He laughed harshly, at that, and combed his fingers over his face.   
And she could hear the fine sounds as they pulled over his beard, tugged at the bags under his eyes.

“... 'Tis mine desire, as 'tis yours. To find him. If it displeases you... Think of it like this. You can _protect_ me.”

Under her sack, she _grinned_ from ear to ear, but not at all for the reasons he groaned out loud and brought his head into his hands.  
  
“You truly aren't going to accept any kind of answer but yes, are you. Probably should've just left you to rot, then.”

“Mmn. I wouldn't have resented you.”  
  
And she truly wouldn't have, though he might have resented her for the slight pat to the small of his back, and then the firmer one that (though she felt it was still fairly light) nearly sent him sprawling.  
  
But, when he'd stopped coughing...  
  
“Fine, well – fine. Listen. I'm not going to turn you down, even though I've got a – a terrible feeling about this, and I try to make it a habit to listen to my intuition. We can both die together, if you're so desperate to – “  
_  
**The cavern wall crunched under her fist as she slammed it into the stone.** _

_He shut up. Which was good.  
She'd gotten tired of his blustering, preferred it when he was subservient and stammering.   
Trying to think of him as human, and not as **meat** was exhausting.   
He was exhausting. She hated feeling like this moment might last, and couldn't he see what a sacrifice this was? He should be grateful.  
  
 **He'd learn to be grateful.  
  
** She leaned over him, and he pulled into the floor.   
There was no fire crackling beneath his fingertips, and she wondered if her presence was so awful that he was utterly cowed, like the first of the goats that led the rest into the slaughterhouse.  
  
And her breath smelled of smoke and cooked flesh as she whispered into his ear.  
  
 **“That scared... Of having me with you...”**_

_She was still hungry.  
Mildred was always hungry; even if the undead did need to eat, you never felt full.   
It was an addictive vice, and the worst part was knowing that the man in front of her could be split down the middle, hung to dry – he wouldn't talk so much then... _

_But his eyes were directed at the ground, and not at her._  
  
“No. I... I was more – I thought you might not want to be seen with _me._ ”

The compulsion left her in an instant, the desire gone and replaced with something she couldn't put into a words, a feeling so strange that she wasn't sure she'd ever experienced it before.  
For a few precious seconds, she grappled angrily with descriptions that she didn't remember as sounds – and gave up, as she always did.  
  
“How... What...”  
  
She shut her eyes, removed her mask, and set it to the side.  
Her fingers scratched irritably at her scalp, but he remained silent.   
And she'd wanted him to be silent not so long before, so why was it _different_ now –

“It's not that surprising. I mean, most people are... Suspicious of pyromancers. There's nothing I could tell you that'd make you believe all of this... Isn't my fault, yeah?”  
  
No.  
  
There truly _wasn't._   
It wasn't even as if she hated the idea of pyromancy; the Witch of Izalith, her – wicked hubris aside – was still one of the Great Lords, as cherished as the Gravelord, or Gwyn himself.  
But so many stories had ended with a wicked swamp mongrel spreading their filth and disease into peaceful lands, and – and it was funny, really.   
  
She'd _lived_ in a horrible miasma of filth and disease.   
Pretty much was immune to it now.  
  
And still – even still!..  
  
“So. Mildred. Please. You don't have to – whatever it is you're trying to do, whether you're being grateful for me trying to do the right thing, or feel like you're obliged – “

“Not that. Isn't that...”  
  
Her whisper was devoured by the fire and it's death throes, and for the first time in a long time, she remembered what it felt like to feel _small,_ even when you were taller than the boys who'd grown into their stride.

“ – Well, whatever it is, you don't need to. I'm fine. My... Pyromancy is strong. I had a good teacher, and if you're concerned about me, listen, I'm used to being alone so – that's fine, too. There's absolutely, positively no reason you need to do this.”  
  
But she couldn't stop thinking about it; the idea, almost comical, that he'd thought of her reputation.   
A hulking killer, wielding an ungainly and ugly weapon, rusted and now broken.   
And even if people hadn't looked at her and panicked, first – who would've turned their news up at _him_ and not _her?_

Of course, that wasn't it, either.  
She grit her teeth, until the sound was constant enough that he had to interrupt.

“... Mildred.”  
  
His voice was softer, and she already regretted giving him a name.   
It made her seem like a person, instead of a monster, an abstract concept that lurked at the edges of stories told to disciplined unruly children.

Weren't any children, or any mothers to tell stories.  
Nor were there any people to watch either of them, or care.   
The world...  
  
“Look, I'm – grateful for the offer, but you don't need to follow whatever obligations kept you... Miraculously unhollowed, down there. Maybe I'll find what I'm looking for, maybe I won't. But there's no need for you to – to throw your life away along with mine.”  
  
“... That's just it. Don't want anybody to throw their life away.”  
  
She wanted nothing less.  
Her eyes opened, and they were translucent and grey.   
Years upon years of living in the acrid swamps had stolen whatever colour they had away, and she prayed that she was facing him, that he could _see_ the emotions that her words struggled to convey.

But she wasn't sure if she _was_ emoting, even as she felt like...

“Accept it.”

It wasn't an order, however; a whisper so low could never be a whisper, never be a merciful killing blow that left no room for escape.  
  
He paced around the cavernous room, one hand held to his chin; kept on opening his mouth and saying nothing.

Finally, he spoke.  
  
“Nothing about this strikes me as wise. And I'm not sure why you'd care about my life, ahaha, when I'm just – a traveler, really. Searching for something I'll probably never find.”  
  
“You might. You could find it!..”  
  
With a sigh, he extinguished the last remnants of the fire.   
Night had come, and the dark sun was in dominion, bright and comforting.

“Maybe I will, yeah. It's not impossible. And if you're committed, I can't really stop you. Nor do I have any clue why you're being so inflexible, but, aha, guess I've never been too good at reading people. So – if you truly want to do this...”  
  
Silently, she walked over and grabbed his hand in hers.  
  
“Er..?”  
  
Placing it above her breast, she thumped her other hand over theirs, before letting his hand fall free.   
It felt right, even if she couldn't remember if that was how to make an oath.  
  
“See. The Gods know about it, now. So. You can't back down.”  
  
“Ah, ahaha, right, the Gods...”  
  
He didn't exactly sound _overjoyed_ , and she clenched her teeth and made a sound awfully like 'tsch' and he – laughed, a little.  
  
… Good.  
  
“Well, I suppose that's enough for me, then. And what a better time to start a little journey than in the dead of night? Just – you're not to kill anyone except Hollows around me, all right?”  
  
“No promises...”  
  
“Ergh, well – try? Is that too much to ask?”  
  
“Dunno. But I think I can try...”  
  
She grinned toothily at him, wide and bright enough that she wondered if she could put the sky above to shame; he was silent, and she truly wondered what his expression was like, and her fingers tensed.   
He seemed to realise as much, and took a step back.  
  
“No more of that, either! If you please. You're, ah, very touchy...”  
  
“Can't be helped.”  
  
“Well, I suppose _not_ , in your case. And I truly, _truly_ am regretting this before it's even began.”  
  
But his tone implied that wasn't entirely true; once a journey had been planned and an oath had been made, was there a person alive who couldn't get a little excited?

_(Her heart was **pounding** in excitement.)_

When they left, his eyes were a light green under the baleful moonlight, and their silence was a merry conversation of its own – with only the dead embers of a fire to tell rumours of their presence.


End file.
